


Det får være som det er

by Squoxie



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cedric is a sad boi, Drabble, Gen, He thinks a lot, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:55:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24353215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squoxie/pseuds/Squoxie
Summary: A moment in time, suspended.Ch 1: In Norwegian, original textCh 2: In English, translated from original text
Comments: 7
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

Vinden hvisker hemmeligheter til trærne, og de rister av stille latter. Bekken klukker der den snor seg mellom trær, stein, rundt en haug og ned en bakke. Fuglene kvitrer, dansende høyt i luften. Cedric smiler vagt til seg selv, skakker litt på hodet for å høre på fuglesangen. Å være en fugl, tenk, det kunne vært noe. Å kunne fly til fjerne steder, forsvinne med en sang, lett og ledig.

Men han er nå enn en alv, og ikke en fugl. Det får være som det er.

Noe beveger på seg, og han vender blikket dit, ser en oransje hale tippet med hvitt, før den forsvinner blant trærne. En rev. Det får ham til å smile igjen, samtidig som sorg tynger hjertet. En rev flykter, en annen har han flyktet fra. Ikke frivillig. Aldri frivillig, men … det ble nå slik. Han kan ikke forandre fortiden, og det for sårt nå. En unnskyldning vil ikke hjelpe.

Et skarpt ubehag iler bak øynene hans, og han gisper for pust i et øyeblikk, må lene seg mot et tre. Smerten ebber vekk, men et ekko ligger igjen. Et faresignal, et minne. Han hater det. Hater smerten, uvissheten, at han aldri vet når det kommer, eller hva det betyr. Men hva skal han gjøre med det? Det eneste som har hjulpet er en full flaske med vodka. Smidig, skarp alkohol ned halsen, varme, så tåke. I tåken er han trygg. Alt det vonde viskes vekk av tåken, han kan _være_ , uten å tenke, uten å føle. 

«Å, du er et fjols,» sukker han. Ikke at det er noe nytt.

Hva skal han gjøre nå? Han vet ikke. Han vet så mye, og allikevel vet han ingenting. Flere hundre år med erfaring, med liv, og hva betyr det, egentlig? Han er gammel, men hva betyr alle erfaringene, når de bare gjør ham bitter og fortapt? Før kunne han ha troen på at det ville bli bedre, at en løsning ville bli funnet. Nå? Nå vet han ikke lenger. Et øye for et øye, og hele verden blir blind. Skal _det_ være løsningen?

Han retter seg opp, gnir seg i tinningen, og begir seg videre. Han orker ikke drive med all denne tenkingen. For nå må han finne et sted han kan være trygg, i den tro at trygghet i det hele tatt eksisterer lenger. Han har ikke lenger en plass med de han har kalt sine. Et valg han selv har tatt, tross vissheten om at de ikke ville forstå. Det får være som det er.

Det får være som det er.


	2. It must be as it is

The wind whispers secrets to the trees, and they shake silently with laughter. The stream clucks where it sneaks between trees, stones, around a mound and down a hill. The birds are singing, dancing high up in the air. Cedric smiles vaguely to himself, tilts his head to listen to the birdsong. To be a bird, think, that could be something. To be able to fly to foreign places, disappear with a song, light and free.

But he is an elf, and not a bird. It must be as it is.

Something moves, and he turns his gaze there, sees an orange tail tipped with white, before it disappears between the trees. A fox. It makes him smile again, even as sorrow makes his heart heavy. One fox flees, another, he has fled from. Not voluntarily. Never voluntarily, but… it is how it turned out. He can’t change the past, and it is too sore now. An apology won’t help.

A sharp pain flares behind his eyes, and he gasps for air for a moment, must lean on a tree. The pain ebbs, but leaves an echo. A signal of danger, a memory. He hates it. Hates the pain, the uncertainty, that he never knows when it’s coming, or what it means. But what is he to do about it? The only thing that has helped is a full bottle of vodka. Smooth, sharp alcohol down the throat, heat, then fog. In the fog, he is safe. All the hurts are erased by the fog, he can _be_ , without thinking, without feeling.

“Oh, you are a fool,” he sighs. Not that it is anything new.

What is he to do now? He doesn’t know. He knows so much, and yet, he knows nothing. Several hundred years of experience, of life, and what does it mean, really? He is old, but what do the experiences mean, when they only make him bitter and lost? Before, he could believe it would become better, that a solution would be found. Now? Now he doesn’t know. An eye for an eye, and the whole world goes blind. Is _that_ to be the solution?

He straightens, rubs his temple, and moves on. He can’t bear all this thinking. For now, he must find a place to be the safe, in the belief that safety even exists anymore. He no longer has a place with those he called his own. A choice he has made himself, despite the knowledge that they would not understand. It must be as it is.

It must be as it is.

**Author's Note:**

> I was stuck with my writing and thought writing in my mother tongue could help. Turned out poetic and sad, somehow, but I quite liked it, and so I translated it as well so everyone may enjoy it - though the translation may be a bit clunky here and there, sorry 'bout that!


End file.
